Refuge
by MimiLuvs16
Summary: You're all that he needs. "Creed 2" inspired, short fluff piece, which involves Viktor Drago and an O/C. Was hoping to put it on my Tumblr page, but things didn't turn out the way I hoped.


**Author's Note**:

*waves* Hello, again. Long time, no see.

No, this is not a "Divergent" update. To be honest with you, I am nowhere near ready for the next "Nasira and Eric" story.

No, this is a fluff piece for another fandom that I am a part of. Nothing serious and ongoing. Last year, in December, I had watched "Creed 2" and fell in love with the story. Especially for the Dragos, both Ivan's and Viktor's character arcs. Plus Florian Munteanu isn't bad to look at, either.

So, I've decided to write a short fluff piece.

This story was supposed to be featured on my Tumblr page, but thanks to new site regulations, I cannot post this piece (via the mobile app).

Enjoy.

* * *

_"... Sometimes it's soft as a misting rain That gently touches my soul..."_

Your lips absentmindedly mouthed the lyrics to the slow-tempo tune as your brain casually feeds them to you.

_ "... It cools the fire that burns in me..."_

Your brain's primary focus is the brightly-lit screen from your lap top. Your irises are gazing at the contents. Analyzing the colorful bar graphs and staring at the black font of the Cyrillic script, which forms the Russian words that are parts of the presentation.

_"...Rain down (on) on me Let you're love just fall like rain drops Rain on me..."_

It is at this moment, when the darkness that is on the other side of the apartment's windows decides to decorate the panes with rain water. The union between the water and your studio apartment's windows is loud enough to distract you from your task. Your eyes glance at the trio of windows that are several inches behind your desk. You take in the sight. The reminder from the local news channel about the impending weather conditions fills your head. A thunderstorm is coming and it is going to affect the city of Kiev, for tonight and tomorrow. A very nasty one that is going to bring along heavy rain and strong winds. A weather advisory states that residents should refrain from going outside. It's the reason why you have decided to take the following two days off from work. It is also the same reason why you've decided to refill your refrigerator and cupboards with enough groceries to keep you full, for the next two weeks.

"Well..." The ominous rumbling of thunder swallows up your voice. Your eyes still gaze out of the window. You watch the night's sky and the building tops that are present in front of you. "...no plans of going out anyway," you finish saying to yourself.

'Viktor...'

A day-old memory slips into your mind of you, as you stand in front of your living room's window and spy on your neighbors. The crotchety and weathered father and his equally-weathered son stood beside their worn-down vehicle, deep in conversation. Both are dressed in athletic gear. Well, as athletic as it could get: sweat suits and dirty sneakers.

'...I wonder if _Daddy Dearest_ is going to give him a break. It's not good to have him run in this shitty weather. Or, to travel around Kiev in this weather. Quickest way to catch the flu...'

Your brain conjures up memories of your famous boxer-of-a-neighbor and...

And...

And...

_'What is he to you?'_

Boyfriend?

Lover?

_Cut-buddy?_

The last status-title suggestion manages to tickle your funny-bone and you unleash a soft snort, then a laugh. "Oh God... Viktor. I can imagine how that would go over with him," you mumble. The notion makes you laugh once more.

Thunder and lightning strikes the sky, causing your studio apartment to fill up with a roar and a dim light. Your eyes peer down at your laptop's screen again. The Cyrillic script catches your attention again. This time, it taunts your spirit with your sense of insecurity. "Oh God," you groan into your right hand as your fingertips try to calm you down with deep, soothing prods to your brow line. 'Pietor says he'll help you with the translation,' you remind yourself. The face of your colleague comes to the forefront of your mind. 'Don't worry, Y/N. You got this.' You groan into your hand again before removing it from your face. You look at your presentation's graphs again. 'At least, I have those right.'

Your eyes take a peek at the Russian again. The left elbow lands on the cold wooden desktop and your chin rests on the palm of your left hand. You still stare at the letters.

"I can't believe I grew up l_earning_ Ukrainian... _Speaking_ Ukrainian... Finally moves to the Ukraine... They prefer to speak Russian... Just. My...Fucking luck." Your eyes glaze over as your mind settles up in the stream of your subconscious.

It is the letter-combination of 'u' and 'k' in the word 'Ukrainian,' which has led you to your current lifestyle. At the age of four, your fascination with the word begins, thanks to an advertisement about a new language school, in a supermarket circular. So, at the age of four, you become determined to learn the language, even though you barely could read English. But it doesn't stop you from asking your parents to enroll you in "Ukrainee-Ann School" as the child-version of you would say. Surprisingly, your parents allow it. By the age of eighteen, you are able to speak the slavic language fluently. You're able to read and write in the Ukrainian language, too.

About five years ago, the corporation that you work for gives you the opportunity to be a part of the team that will look over the new company branch in Kiev, Ukraine. The fact that you have a glowing reputation amongst your colleagues and a strong work history makes you an eligible candidate. The fact that you speak fluent Ukrainian definitely makes you stand out from the competition.

It isn't until you move over here is when you find out that the citizens prefer to speak Russian. They _do speak_ Ukrainian, but they prefer to speak Russian. You've come to that realization on your first day in Kiev, when several of your neighbors gave you the same look of annoyance-then-resignation, after you keep on speaking in Ukrainian despite their insistence of the Russian language. Then, you quickly learn that your colleagues also prefer to speak Russian, as well. Fortunately for you, they decide to throw you a bone by speaking to you in either Ukranian or English and official meetings are spoken in the former.

The sound of the front door's deadbolt becoming unhinged pulls you from your thoughts. Your bleary eyes look past your right shoulder just as your apartment's door opens. A millisecond later, your sight takes in the broad and tall figure that can only belong to one person. 'Viktor.'

Everything feels tightly-wound inside of you. The muscles that make up your stomach, your thighs, your back and shoulders. A line of pressure is drawn along your throat and chest. Your heart unleashes hard thumps and you feel hot, despite your apartment being bathed in air conditioning coolness. His left hand removes his jacket's hood from off of his head. The right gently pushes the front door close. He remembers that you hate the sound of slamming doors. It makes you smile. 'Not cut-buddy material,' you conclude, 'definitely not'.

A pair of naturally brooding, hazel eyes stare at you. "_Privet_, Y/N," the familiar brogue announces and fills the studio apartment.

'More Russian.' A sudden streak of giggles turns out to be your first response to him.

Your laughter reflects how you feel, at the moment: tired and slightly stressed. Your presentation for the meeting is a week away and you've been working on this project since two weeks ago. Non-stop. Making your work schedule go from forty-seven hours a week to _sixty-five hours_ a week. From Sunday to Saturday. From dawn to dusk and back to dawn. Your short-lived dreams even depict you as working on this project.

Viktor's handsome face quickly contorts into a mild expression of confusion.

You see it and quickly answer his wordless question. "_No_... _No_..." you say in between chunks of husky laughter. Your right hand casually waves off the air. "...I'm not laughing at you," you tell him. "I'm just slowly going crazy from the lack of sleep," you jibe.

The expression fades. "Oh," he slowly hums. He travels away from the front door and further into the apartment, peeling off his track jacket and sneakers along the way. "Do you want me to go?" He asks this question as he bends down to pick up his footwear, so he can store them at the foot of your bed.

"No," you admit. The laughter is gone. You still feel frazzled and tired. "I want you to stay. _I need you_ here."

His head snaps up while his eyes give you an intense glower. Even you can't deny their power. A flush of heat fill you up. You've known Viktor long enough to know that there's no malice behind every one of his soul-penetrating glares.

"I-I... I need you here... _Tonight_," you inform him.

Viktor doesn't verbally respond. A few milliseconds tick by in which he stares at you and then there's a head nod. He, then, carries his sneakers to the bedroom section of your studio apartment. You watch him trek over to your king-sized bed. You notice that his usual confident-and-fluid saunter is a bit restrained. As if he's not using his full strength in his steps because he wants to avoid discomfort. Or worse, pain. "What's wrong with you?"

Viktor makes a glimpse at you, over his right shoulder. He approaches the side of the bed before he answers. "Nothing," he says in a soft tone. "Just sore. From work-out," he further explains.

You remind yourself that the boxer has a match, two months from now. His opponent is a British fighter, who is evenly-matched. You know what this guy looks like, thanks to Google. He's slightly taller than the Russian, at 6'5 and a half. Has the face that his mother could only love. He has a strong and thick build, too. Comes from "boxing royalty": his great-father was a famous boxing promoter, his grandfather and father were also professional boxers with positive reputations. Unlike Viktor, this guy has been a professional boxer for over ten years. Despite knowing all of this information, your faith in Viktor's skills and talent is unflinching.

But still... Viktor is working out like a man that believes he can lose. Since his lost to Adonis Creed last year, he has come to terms with the lesson that comes with that defeat.

"What time did you start today's session? Or should I say, _'What time did Ivan wake you up to start your training session_?'" You inquire. Another glower comes from him as he sits on the mattress' edge. This time, you know the message behind it. 'Don't start up.'

He rolls his shoulders thrice. "Woke up at four. Out the door by five. Training since six. Didn't stop until five, tonight," he explains. He closes his eyes and begin to roll his head. "Sore, but okay," he confesses.

'Figures.' You roll your eyes. "You need a bath to soak in and treat those muscles," you tell him.

"No. Shower. I'll be fine," he concludes.

"No... You need a soaking. You will take a bath. And while you're in there, I'll heat up some dinner for you," you point out to the stubborn behemoth.

"Y/N, I'll take show-

"_Bath_... Viktor," you interject. "I am not going to back down from this. You're going to take a bath. Relax those muscles in some Epsom salt." You are not going to relent. In fact, you are going to show him that you mean business.

You slip from your chair and you travel to your bathroom. Your claw-foot tub is long and wide enough to comfortably Viktor's large frame. It is one of this apartment's features that convince you to buy into this co-op apartment, years ago. You start up a bath for him, incorporating your own remedy for stuff joints and overworked muscles. As the tub fills with foamy, hot water, you make your trip to your bedroom.

"Your bath is almost ready," you announce as you watch him strip his short-sleeved shirt off. He gives you a glare and you gift the boxer a smug smile. You make your way over to the kitchen area. "Your dinner will be done, when you're finished," you alert him.

You don't see Viktor trek his handsome, big ass into your bathroom, but you do hear his heavy footfalls and then the sound of the bathroom's door slightly closing. Once you hear that rumbling of contentment amongst the sound-waves of rippling water, you go back to reheating the lasagna in the oven.

Viktor emerges from the bathroom, an hour later. Wearing nothing but a towel, he makes his way to the bed. There's no restriction in his steps. Smiling, you tell him to have a seat at the dinner table. As he goes to the table, you grab his plate of food. He unleashes another grunt of contentment as he sits down. You place his food in front of him. You go to sit back at your desk and go to work, but his hands have other plans. With a non-verbal plea, he asks for you to sit with him as he eat. Your chair, being his lap. You accept his invitation.

As Viktor dines on his hearty portion of lasagna and you sit on his lap, you converse. Well... More like _you talk_ and he listens. You don't mind. After all, Viktor is an introvert, through-and-through, and will speak when it's necessary. You know that you're willingness to talk about yourself, strangely, gives him relief from the pressure that's on him. So, you tell him about your day. You give him a condensed and understandable explanation about your problem with your project. Then, there are moments in which there's comfortable silence between the two of you. At this time, the sounds of his short grunts of satisfaction as he chew his food, as well as, his fork occasionally dinging his plate, take over the atmosphere. It is during these tranquil moments, where your lips would sweetly kiss his temple and your fingers caress his scalp and shoulder. You know that you can't chase every boogeyman that plagues his spirit, but you wish that your kisses could. After he finishes his food, he makes the initiative of washing his dishes before you can make a break for it.

It is during this time you decide to call it a night. Your brain is not going to focus on your work project again. You're physically tired and even your eyeballs feel the strain. You save your work before you shut down your laptop. You go to your bedroom and tidy up. Then, as you draw your bed's blankets down, an idea comes to your head. By the time Viktor appears in your bedroom, you have everything set up.

"What's this?" asks Viktor as he eyes the bottle of body oil on the nightstand.

With a smile on your face, you say "Lay down. On your stomach. I want to give you a massage". You watch a flicker of warmth light up his eyes and a soft, natural blush explode in his cheeks. It causes your own cheeks to blush, as well as, a fluttering to travel from your chest to your gut. A tightness grasp your throat.

"No. No..." he simply state as his head subtly shakes. "... The bath-No. I am fine. My-No, I am okay," he declares while stumbling over his words. His dialect becomes thicker and pronounced. "I am fine. Just need sleep, Y/N."

"I want to do this... For _you_, Viktor. I don't..."

"Y/N, I am..."

"...mind. I think that you're going to feel bet..."

"Y/N-

"_For me_!" You state. You subtly... beg. "Please, Viktor. Can you do it for me? I won't be able to sleep tonight, if I continue to believe that you're still feeling discomfort," you inform him.

Silence falls between you. You two end up in a standoff which occurs only with your eyes. It lasts a few seconds, but it feels like it is minutes. It comes to an end, when Viktor gives you one of his curt head nods. You show him your gratitude by doing out a toothy smile. But first, he fetches a pair of clean boxers from his drawer and puts them on. Then he follows through with your plan, when he lays on his side of the bed, on his stomach.

When it comes to being a massage, you don't know shit. You have more experience as being the recipient than being the provider. The only experience that you have with being a masseuse is from your teenage years, when you would massage your own feet as you sat out, at your school dances. Despite your limited knowledge, you still want to give Viktor his well-deserved massage. He worked for it. _Most definitely._ Deciding to rely on your instinct and your likes-dislikes, you begin. You start with his massive back and broad shoulders. After decorating his flesh with several spots of oil, your fingers and palms begin to work. It isn't until a minute's worth of kneading from your fingers is when you receive a sign from Viktor. A soft inhale and then a brusque exhale comes from him. Underneath your hands, his back loses its rigidity and becomes relaxed, all within a deep breath. "Feels nice?" you ask, your smiling is evident in your voice. You receive a grunt as his answer. You accept it as a suitable response. Then, you continue.

You feel that more than an hour has passed by the time you finish giving Mr. Viktor Drago his massage. By then, from his shoulders to his feet are covered with a ruddy and glowing complexion, thanks to the massage oil and your hands' ministrations. Now, your bedroom's walls are being serenaded by Viktor's light snores.

Yes, he manages to fall asleep while you massage him. It happens, you guess.

You leave your sleeping companion and your bedroom to go to the bathroom. You clean yourself up; free from the remnants of body oil and the sweat that formed as you complete your task. Once you return to your bedroom, you slip on your pajamas. You slip into bed, beside Viktor. You check your cellphone, which is on the nightstand next to you. Satisfied with the fact that it is charging, you plunge your entire apartment into darkness. You relax into your spot just as thunder rolls across the sky. At the tail end of the rumbling, you hear the mattress creak as you feel it shift. There is a raspy, sleep-filled exhale from your bed partner. Your body anticipate the next action. You don't have to wait long. A band of hot, fleshy strength collapses on top-

_"Ya lyublyu tebya__."_

It is spoken in a slurring, soft and sleepy moan. It comes just as his hand and arm brings your pliable body into his personal space. You don't notice that you're now sharing a pillow with your neighbor-_back slash_-lover.

You're still tripping over what he has declared. Since being in Kiev, you've heard this term-these cluster of Russian words-many times. You've heard them from the lips of strangers as you traveled on mass transportation. You've heard them from your co-workers as they softly whisper them into their phones. From off of Russian television programs and from characters in films. They are even advertised on billboards and on decorations that hang in storefronts. But you've never heard them come from another person and it is addressed to you.

Until now.

'_No_,' you quietly whimper. Even though it is dark in your bedroom, your wide eyes are still trying to focus on Viktor's sleeping face. _'No, he did not say_...'

You don't take his comfort into consideration, when you frantically peel yourself out of his embrace and out of his space. You scamper over to the other side of the bed, over to your phone. Fingertips pick up the phone and proceed to try to calm your frazzled soul. A journey into Google's translator and your fingertips eventually confirms it. "_Oh my_..." you whimper.

_'Ya lyublyu tebya.'_

_'I love you.'_

You take in a deep breath, even though your throat is having difficulty allowing oxygen to pass through. Your heart races while your stomach trembles. You look away from your phone's screen and stare into the darkness that is front of you. 'Heeee... _Can't_,' your insecurity whispers. _'He can't._ _He can't._ He's... _He's too young_. He's just getting his life together... Boxer. He's a boxer-_A boxer!_ He's going to be living on the fast-track soon enough- _Women!_ There's going to be plenty of women after him. What happens...? He might want a Russian wife. Someone that understands- I can't stay in Ukraine forever. I will have to go back home eventually. Maybe... May-Maybe... He's dreaming. _He's dreaming!_ He doesn't know what he's saying! Cos... He can't... He can't-

'But... _Do you?_' your conscience ponders.

Wide, stinging eyes glance over to the shrouded wall of windows that are behind your bed's headboard. You listen to the repetitive sounds of raindrops crashing against the windows.

_'Do you?_' You hear the question inside of your heart.

You know that you don't have to ponder too long. You already know the answer to this question. You don't know when it manages to bloom in you, but you recognize its presence.

Teary eyes glance over your shoulder. You listen to his soft snores as he sleeps, completely unaware of the current situation. Under any other night, his snoring would give you some comfort. _Comfort_, as in relief in knowing that he is getting a good night's rest. You know that the couch in his place doesn't provide comfort.

You _most definitely_ know the answer.

You turn away from the sleeping Viktor. Your hands wipe away the tears that's gathering at your eyelids. They also dry your cheeks. You make a glimpse at your phone before you shut it down and place it back on the nightstand. Then you slip underneath the bed linen and slip back into your former spot. Your smaller frame is swallowed up by Viktor's brawny arm. He subconsciously draws himself closer.

You wake up with a start.

The feeling of soft pecks to your slightly-opened mouth is what greets you into the new day. Sleepy eyes shoot their bleary vision onto the handsome face that belongs to Viktor Drago.

His own face is covered with sleep and relaxation as well. "Good morning," his voice creaks.

Your lips form a smile. "Good morning," you murmur. You lazily blink as you ask, "How do you say it in Russian?"

"_'Good morning?_'"

"Yes," you moaned before stretching your limbs.

He waits until you finish stretching before he answers. "_Doboye utro_."

You repeat. He gives you a sign of satisfaction in the form of grunt. You give a smile. "So, how do you say..." You pause. Your heart begins to pound and your stomach flutters.

"_Yes_?" His accented voice rings out.

"How do you say... _'I love you_,' in Russian?"

"Mmm..." he hummed. His lips slightly purses. "... There's _'Ya lyublyu tebya'_."

"_Yeah_?" you breathed.

"Da," he confirms.

"So, it's _'Yeah... you-blue..Tee_-

Viktor stops you and begins to slowly enunciate the words. He does it again, so you can pronounce the Russian declaration with him. He listens to you repeat it again, by yourself. "Da," he mumbles. "Correct," he says in English.

You unleash a soft laugh and settle into a grin. "Victor... _Ya lyublyu tebya_," you speak into the bedroom.

You stare into his eyes with a purpose. You notice that there's warmth in them. But there isn't any acknowledgment or enlightenment about your declaration. Your right hand lightly clasp his jaw and cheek. The sharp, thick hair that covers his face gives your fingers a bit of a whisker-burn. "_Victor_... _Ya lyublyu tebya_," you repeat, hoping that it sinks in. "_I mean it_." Your knuckles give a caress to his bearded jawline. "Baby, I-

You don't get to speak any further. Viktor won't allow it.

Your lips are unexpectedly covered with his own. Your face and neck are, then, decorated with rushed kisses. A few unglamorous chuckles fall from you. Relief fills your core as hot tears spill from your eyes. He doesn't have to verbally say anything to you. You know. And, you definitely don't need Google translator for his answer.


End file.
